


Everybody Wants To Rule The World

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [20]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fluff, Memory Alteration, twissy, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara had been minding her own business in the shower before the Doctor had interrupted her enthusiastic rendition ofRoyals, leaving her silent, self-conscious and angry (mainly angry). Determined not to capitulate to his demands for attention, she'd stuck a YouTube video on to keep him occupied. That was her first mistake.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSaddleman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/gifts), [evilqueenofgallifrey (MayFairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Definition of Trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503111) by [evilqueenofgallifrey (MayFairy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey). 



> Alrighty, so this fic was inspired by [Aimee's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey) wonderful fic [The Definition of Trouble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3503111/chapters/7699637). Also [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman) prompted:  
>  _Clara's a Lorde fan, plays Twelve a video and Twelve becomes convinced that she's Missy's daughter and out to conquer the world!_
> 
> Ideas collided. This was the result.

“But every song's like gold teeth, Grey Goose, trippin' in the bathroom, bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin' the hotel room… we don't care, we're driving Cadillacs in our dreams. But everybody's like Cristal, Maybach, diamonds on your timepiece, jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash… we don't care, we aren't caught up in your love affair,” Clara warbled into her shower gel bottle, voice as husky as she could manage as she rinsed the remains of peach conditioner out of her hair. “And we’ll never be royals-” 

“Clara?” a voice interjected from nowhere, and she shrieked, dropping the bottle she was holding and swearing loudly as it disappeared into the steam swirling around her ankles. “Not that your singing isn’t enjoyable, but can you hurry up, please? I’m bored.” 

She took a deep breath to ready herself for what would undoubtedly be an impending shouting match, then stepped out of the shower and wrapped her towel securely around herself before stomping into the console room and executing her best Distinctly Unimpressed facial expression. “Right, since when did the shower have a speaker in?” she demanded to know, folding her arms over her chest in an attempt to both look accusatory _and_ keep her towel in place. 

“Since always,” the Doctor replied in a casual tone, tinkering with the console and paying no attention to his companion’s irritation in a manner that Clara suspected was deliberate. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

“I’ll drip wherever I damn well like. Is there a _camera_ in there?” Clara asked, clutching her towel to herself more tightly as she was struck with the realisation that he might have been watching her bathe. Possibly for years. “Jesus Christ, have you been watching me shower?” 

“No,” the Doctor said in a stung tone, circling around to the far side of the console before clarifying: “I mean, yes there’s a camera. No, I haven’t been watching you shower.” 

“Dear god,” Clara hovered on the spot, unsure whether to approach the Time Lord and thwack him in the arm, or stay where she was and drip on the metal flooring in a more passive aggressive manner. She sensed the latter may irritate the TARDIS in addition to the man who piloted her, but she was willing to take that chance. “Why are you so creepy?” 

“It’s a giant, sentient space ship, Clara,” he reminded her, still avoiding looking at her. She was right – it was _definitely_ deliberate. “You _were_ basically showering in her stomach.” 

“That’s a creepy image, thanks.” 

“In her _inner workings_ , then.” 

“That’s even worse. Just… stop talking about me and your ship in relation to each other, please.” 

“But-” 

“And stop watching me shower!” 

“I have not been watching you shower!” he protested, and even though his face was concealed by the time rotor, she knew he’d be blushing. “Just enjoying the singing.” 

“Right, because that’s _so_ much less weird.” 

“To be fair,” he reasoned, finally poking his head round the console to meet her gaze. There was a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks, and he arched an eyebrow at his companion in a way that she understood to be a calculated distraction technique. “I could hear you from here, even without the speaker system. What the hell were you singing? It’s well out of your vocal range. As is everything, actually, but this is _really_ not suited to your voice.” 

“It’s like you want me to edge closer and drip all over the console,” Clara said as sweetly as she could manage, offering him a saccharine, winning smile. “Because that could be arranged.” 

“No,” the Doctor warned, holding up one finger to warn her off. “You just stand there, and manage that towel, and keep drippage to a minimum. I’m simply observing that your voice is not primed for singing.” 

Clara ran a hand through her hair and then flicked the accrued water droplets in the general direction of the Doctor, smirking as he hissed and cowered away from them as though they were acidic. She was briefly triumphant, before being rewarded for her efforts with the TARDIS plunging the console room into darkness and replaying her singing at maximum volume in unnecessarily rich surround sound. “I hate you,” she told the space where the Doctor had been. “A lot.”

“What song even _is_ that?” he asked in bafflement, as Clara’s rendition of it came to a screeching end. “What’s a grey goose got to do with Cadillacs? How can a goose even drip?” 

“Grey Goose is vodka, Doctor,” Clara informed him, blinking as the lights came back on. “The song’s about… I don’t know, teenage rebellion. Wanting to live the high life, but finding yourself unable to due to societal constraints.” 

“Deep.” 

“English teacher.” 

“Fair point. Who’s it by, anyway?” 

“Lorde.” 

“Is that his real name?” the Doctor wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Seems a weird choice.” 

“Says the man who calls himself ‘Doctor,’” Clara reminded him, and he shrugged in silent recognition of her point. She felt a fleeting sense of victory. “No, it’s not _her_ real name.” 

“Her? ‘Lord’ is a male rank, isn’t it?”

“L-O-R-D-E. Her. She’s from New Zealand. Dunno what her real name is. Ella something, I think.”

“Is New Zealand the one with all the sheep?” the Time Lord asked, frowning as he thought. “Or is that Wales?” 

“That’s both, but New Zealand is the one next to Australia. It’s… actually kind of boring. Nice, but there’s not a lot to do. We were going to go after university, but… well, it looked a bit… lacking in culture. By which I mean fit men and nightclubs. So, I can totally see her point about how she wants to live the high life and escape.” 

“Bit like you, then.” 

“Yeah, because running around in a Type 40 TARDIS with a broken chameleon circuit is _totally_ the same as drinking vodka in a hot tub with a load of naked men.” 

“You’ve got me!” 

“You are neither naked, nor in a hot tub.” 

“I could be both.” 

“Please don’t,” Clara grimaced at the thought. “She’s mega famous now though; escaped New Zealand and made it big globally. She’s bezzie mates with Taylor Swift and all that glamourous lot.” 

“Is she the blonde one with lots of cats that you show me endless pictures of?” the Doctor made a face. “Because if so, I disapprove.” 

“Miserable old git,” Clara said fondly, secretly enjoying his condemnation of celebrity culture. “I’m like, eighty-five percent sure I’ve shown you a picture of the squad before.” 

“The _what_?” 

“It’s what Taylor Swift’s sort of… girl gang call themselves.” 

“What does it do? It sounds terrifying.” 

Clara frowned, pondering the question and realising she actually had no idea what, precisely, Taylor Swift and her squad _did_ do. “Urm, wear designer clothes, bake cookies, and take a lot of selfies, mainly. It’s… actually kind of dumb.” 

“All the humans you show me photos of are dumb,” the Doctor muttered sourly, then caught her warning look and amended: “Except you.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Clara shot back mechanically, glaring at him without any real malice and heading towards the console with her hand outstretched. “Shove over.” 

“Don’t even think about dripping on this.” 

“I’m _not._ ”

“What are you doing, then?” he asked worriedly, as she took several steps towards him in her towel. “Clara?” 

“Showing you a video, idiot,” Clara poked her tongue out and grabbed the screen with one hand before noticing the Doctor’s stricken expression. “What _now_?” 

“You might… urm… you… urm… your towel… you might… drop…”

“Dear god,” she rolled her eyes and made a show of tucking the offending item more tightly around herself, hoiking it up to her collarbone and then poking her tongue out at the Doctor. “Happy? Towel is tucked in around boobs. Towel will not fall down. Stop being such a man about this, bloody hell.” 

“I’m _not,_ I’m worried about your modesty.” 

“Right,” Clara rolled her eyes again and typed in the web address for YouTube, pointedly ignoring his archaic comment. “Now… classic, or new? That is the question…” 

“Classic who?” 

“ _Lorde_ , keep up.” 

“Oh. Urm. Classic. What was it that you were singing? Can I hear the proper, not-mangled version?” 

“Yes, you div,” Clara clicked on the _Royals_ video and then stepped back, letting it load and cursing the TARDIS’s lack of fibre-optic broadband. “Enjoy.” 

“Urm,” he began, watching a pop-up car advert before decisively clicking _skip ad_ when the option appeared and looking apprehensive as the video buffered. “Right.” 

“I’m going to get dressed. Don’t get lost down the YouTube rabbit hole again, OK? I don’t want to come back and find you watching videos on how to care for endangered giraffes.” 

“I’ll… try…” he murmured, edging closer to the screen when Lorde appeared and leaning towards the video, his eyes narrowing as he concentrated. It was almost endearing. _Almost._  

“You’re being weird,” Clara said suspiciously, before opting to throw caution to the wind. “But I need to stop dripping everywhere, so I will be back in five minutes. Ten, tops. Do not break anything, or start a war in the comments section. _Again._ ” 

She gave him a final warning look that he completely ignored, then disappeared towards her bedroom. She was halfway through drying her hair when the TARDIS speakers crackled into life with a burst of static, and she jumped, dropping her hairdryer onto her knee and yelping in pain. 

“Clara,” the Doctor shouted over them with urgency, and she swore under her breath. “Need you. Now.” 

“For _fuck_ sake,” she muttered at a deliberately audible volume, retrieving it and switching it off. “What _now_?” 

“We have a problem.”

“What _kind_ of problem? I’m gonna need more details.” 

“A big one.” 

“You are _infuriatingly vague_ ,” Clara told him in an irate tone, nevertheless reaching for a pair of nearby boots and tugging them on, all the while scowling in the general direction that the Doctor’s voice was coming from, lest he have a camera in her room too. “You know that?” 

“Just hurry up!” 

“Fine!” she snapped, getting to her feet and running a brush through her hair before heading back to the console room at top speed. She was disconcerted to find him precisely where she’d left him, nose to nose with a Lorde video and squinting in a way that concerned her. Maybe he needed glasses. Maybe the problem was simply that innocuous. “What?” she asked, really, _really_ hoping that was all it was. 

“Does she look… familiar… to you?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as though that might help… well, whatever he was doing. She felt her heart sink as she realised that one of his crackpot theories was evidently about to be explained to her. Or not explained. Knowing the Doctor, probably the latter. 

“No,” Clara shrugged, trying to head him off at the pass. “Why? Should she?” 

“Does she remind you of a certain megalomaniacal Time Lady with a predilection for murder?” 

“Urm,” Clara edged closer to the Time Lord, deciding it couldn’t hurt to indulge him and peering over his shoulder before shoving him aside to get a better look at the screen. “I guess? A little?” 

“Can you be more specific?” 

“You do know that you’re being weirder than normal, right? Like, I have mentioned that? If not, I’m mentioning it now.” 

“Clara.” 

“I don’t know!” she flung her hands in the air, confused by his line of questioning. “Why are you suddenly so obsessed with her?”

“Why are _you_?” the Doctor asked in a maddeningly concerned voice, stepping away from the console and meeting his companion’s gaze. He was concerned, and nothing good ever came of him being concerned. “Think about it… your usual shower tunes aren’t anywhere near as maudlin as half of her songs-”

“You haven’t heard that much of her work!” 

“I skimmed while you were… I don’t know, colouring your face in,” he rolled his eyes to fully communicate his disdain for her concern with her appearance. “Look, usually you sing bloody awful boybands, or Frank Sinatra. Why suddenly this?”

“I don’t know, does it matter?” 

“Has she brought out a new song?” 

“Yeah, _Green…_ something. _Green Light,_ I think. It’s the first track she’s released in ages, other than film soundtrack stuff.” 

“Have you heard this new song?” 

“No, it was reviewed in the paper though,” Clara frowned, casting her mind back to the previous evening and her commute home from work. “You know, the _Evening Standard_. Big picture of her. Stock interview that they tried to pretend was personal. That kind of thing.”

“Clara, this is important, OK? Were you… drawn to it? Did it hold your attention more than it should’ve?”

“How…” Clara blinked at him in consternation, abruptly remembering how she’d been weirdly captivated by the photograph, and how she’d read and re-read the article for a good five minutes. “How the hell could you know that?” 

“Because I had the same thing just now when I watched her videos.”

“So, what… you think that she’s Missy and she’s… god, I don’t know, regenerated herself younger and is hypnotising the world via the medium of New Zealand indie music?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

“Right, but even if that is the case – and I’m not saying it _is,_ so hold your horses – why would Missy write songs about vodka?” she gave him an unconvinced look. “I mean, isn’t blowing up planets more her thing?” 

“Clara, Lorde literally has a song called _Everybody Wants to Rule the World._ ” 

“So?” 

“Subliminal messaging! She wants the human race to wage war with itself while she watches from afar, and then step in at the eleventh hour to take over a largely ravaged planet devoid of proper leadership! _Green Light_ was obviously her… well, green light for inciting global mass panic!” 

“Doctor, I’m saying this because I love you: you are, like… genuinely on something. I swear to god.” 

“Clara, come on!” 

“Are you feeling OK? Did you have coffee again? Because we talked about that, and we agreed that it was a bad idea.” 

“Come _on_.” 

“You keep saying that, but what am I coming on _to_? Could you narrow it down a tad? Unlike you, we aren’t all telepaths.” 

“New York.” 

“Doctor, does this involve making a trip to go and interrogate a twenty-year-old Kiwi singer on the premise that she may or may not be your arch nemesis in disguise, and trying to take over the world by singing about vodka?” 

“Maybe.” 

“You are an actual space lunatic, Jesus _Christ_.” 

“Ach, come on,” the Doctor gave her a sly look, and she knew that whatever he was about to say would be needling and intended to convince her. “You could get her to give you some singing lessons.” 

“I hate you,” Clara sighed, putting her head in her hands and groaning. Why did he know how to press her buttons? Why had she shown him the damn video? “Fine. _Fine,_ but if she isn’t Missy, I will hold this over you forever. Forever and ever and ever.”

“I am aware of that,” he shot back, circling the console and programming coordinates, before disengaging the handbrake with a look of extreme satisfaction that only irked Clara further. “I bet I’m right.” 

“I bet you aren’t.” 

“I’m always right,” he scoffed. “Well. 99.99 percent of the time, anyway.” 

“And I’m reasonably willing to bet that this is the 0.01% of the times you aren’t,” Clara told him smugly, ignoring the black look he shot over his shoulder at her as he headed for the doors and flung them open with unnecessary flair before striding outside. “Wait up!” 

She sighed and ran after him, still exasperated, colliding with him just outside the TARDIS and realising he was stood frozen in shock, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender that she recognised all too well from their adventures. Her stomach constricted as she looked around and appraised the scene: a luxe, minimalistic room with panoramic views of the city outside; one immobile, terrified Time Lord, shocked into silence; one teenage girl, be she Lorde or someone more sinister; and most worryingly of all, one futuristic weapon in the girl’s hands, aimed squarely at the Doctor’s chest while she smirked.

“Hello dad,” she said in an accent that was decidedly _not_ from anywhere in the South Pacific, before tossing her hair over one shoulder and grinning. “Nice to see you’re still bringing the puppy along with you on trips. How generous of you. I guess she needs exercising, although I had half hoped you’d have found more… _domestic_ things to do to keep her amused by now.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Clara asked, embarrassed by the insinuation but taking half a step forwards anyway, only to find herself the target of the non-terrestrial looking weapon and putting her own hands up. “Do I…” she frowned, looking the girl up and down and feeling a faint twinge of recognition in the back of her mind. “Do I know you?”

“Well,” the teen said in awe, and Clara realised she was faintly Scottish. “Mum was right. That really _did_ work out well. Here I was doubting her abilities – gonna have to apologise the next time I see her.” 

“ _What_ worked out well?” the Doctor asked in bafflement, looking from the teenager to Clara and then back again in stupefaction. “Who are you? Who’s your mother? And why the hell are you calling me _dad_?!” 

The girl pouted in what might have been an endearing way, had she not been levelling a gun at the pair of them. “Aww, daddy dearest. I’m really sorry.”

“For what?”

“Well, this may hurt just a little,” the girl deadpanned, then uttered something in a language Clara dimly recognised as Gallifreyan. To her shock, the Doctor cried out at the sound of his own language and clutched his hands to his temples, before squeezing his eyes shut and falling to his knees as the girl fell silent. 

“What did you do?” Clara asked, panicked by his visible suffering and wondering what the hell the girl had said to evoke such a reaction. “Who _are_ you?” 

“God,” the girl rolled her eyes contemptuously in a way that Clara half-recognised. “I know they say humans are much more susceptible to suggestion, but _really_? Not even a vague idea? I mean, mum said the hypnotism would hold unless you saw my face in person, but hello, here I am, and not a flicker. I guess she did a better job than I thought.” 

“Hang on,” Clara realised the implications of the teen’s words. “No, she can’t be…” 

“Oh, please. Spare me. Don’t you remember your little kit yet?” the girl asked in a mocking, singsong tone, and in a flash Clara found herself engulfed in agony, clutching at her own head in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Images flickered across her mind’s eye, too fast to fully process: a little girl in a playground, stood atop a climbing frame; strawberry ice cream, sticky and dripping in the heat of the summer; a scrapbook left in an empty bedroom that had once been full of light and laughter; and then a burned palm, the skin as angry and raw as the emotions linked to the recipient. Linking them together was the same girl she realised was stood before her, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a mane of unruly hair, her Scottish lilt evocative of her heritage and her blue eyes filled with an intelligence that Clara could never hope to comprehend. 

“Charlie?” the Doctor said reverentially, bringing Clara back to her senses, and her eyes refocused to find him still on his knees, looking up at the girl with the utmost tenderness. The name fit her perfectly, and Clara blinked as she realised the depth of what she had forgotten, remembering at last who this girl was and how their lives had intertwined. “Charlie, is that really you?” 

“I don’t know why you’re finding this so difficult, dad,” she said, rolling her eyes in a way that was distinctly like her father but nonetheless allowing her weapon arm to drop to her side. Reassured to find the gun no longer pointed at anyone in the room, Clara relaxed a fraction as Charlie continued: “You’re meant to be the vastly intelligent one… compared to the puppy, anyway. Although mum did tell me that you were always renowned for your stupidity, even at the Academy.” 

“Cut me some slack, I didn’t even remember you existed until two minutes ago,” he retorted, before his tone and expression visibly softened and Clara realised that the guilt that was threatening to consume her must be enhanced tenfold for him. “I mean… Jesus, kit, I feel awful.” 

“That’d be the after-effects of the neural block dissolving, don’t you worry.” 

“The _what_?” Clara interjected, determined to contribute something intelligent to the conversation. “What’s that?” 

“Time Lord technology,” Charlie explained in a slow, condescending voice, and Clara fought to keep her temper in check. “Way beyond your understanding, dear.” 

“There’s no need to be patronising,” she spat, reminded uncomfortably of how Missy tended to address her. “I can understand Time Lord technology just fine, thanks.” 

“Don’t speak to Charlie like that,” the Doctor chided, looking up at the girl with a sickening amount of affection. “She’s my daughter.” 

“Yes, and like you said, until two minutes ago, neither of us remembered she existed. Which is still no excuse for treating me like a moron, or ignoring my question. So, I reiterate: what the hell is a neural block?” 

“Wipes your memory,” he said curtly, before Charlie could jump in and offer a more patronising explanation. “In this case, of her. Your mother’s idea, I’m guessing?” 

“Obviously,” Charlie told him, grinning with barely-suppressed amusement as she continued: “Said you were getting clingy, and that she didn’t _do_ clingy, so she intervened.” 

“Define ‘clingy’?” the Doctor asked, and Clara felt a stab of pity for him.

“Existing,” the girl said with a callous shrug, and his composed expression flickered for a fraction of a second. “That sort of thing.”

“Right,” he took a deep breath, allowing the information to sink in before continuing: “What did you do to Clara?”

“Oh, she was much easier than you were. Mum just hypnotised her.”

“Great,” Clara said sarcastically, feeling somewhat concerned that Missy had poked around in her head. “Nice to know that I was also a victim in this bizarrely awful scheme. Doctor, do you feel OK?” 

“Horrendous.” 

“Yeah, mum did warn me about that,” Charlie looked guilty for half a second, before regaining her cool composure and fiddling with a section of hair. “Said I should probably break the news to you gently, once you… you know, realised where I was and came to say hey.” She shrugged, then said in sickly-sweet, decidedly Missy-esque tone: “My bad!” 

“Well, I meant, you know,” he gestured expansively. “Horrendous about forgetting I-” 

“Had sex with mum?” Charlie suggested, snickering at the notion. “Yeah, she was really bummed out about having to make you forget that.”

“About you!” he shot back, unimpressed by her light-hearted tone. “Horrendous I forgot about you. Jesus, kit, what kind of parent _does_ that?” 

“One that’s irked the other parent, mainly by travelling around with an annoying, yappy puppy?” 

“Hey!” Clara protested, fed up with the derogatory term. “Less of that, thanks.” 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying.” 

“Look, how much have we missed?” Clara asked, gritting her teeth in the face of Charlie’s sarcasm. As her memories continued to return piece by piece, she scanned through them perfunctorily and recognised a great deal of _both_ parents’ influence on the acerbity front, before resigning herself to further catty comments. “Of you?”

“Career wise, quite a lot.”

“You know what we mean, Charlie. How old are you?” 

“Seventeen, or thereabouts. I think.” 

“God,” Clara looked at the Doctor guiltily, her heart lurching at the news in a way that conflicted with her irritation at Charlie’s disrespect for her. “That’s… old.”

“Please,” the teen waved her weapon dismissively, and the Doctor flinched. Noticing his response, the teenager shrugged and chucked it onto a nearby sofa, before placing her hands on her hips and adopting a power stance. “We time travel, dad. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Seventeen is old enough to drive,” the Doctor mumbled, the tips of his ears turning red. “And do… other stuff.” 

“Still not having sex, dad. Still hella asexual. Chill out.” 

“You’re being human,” Clara argued, trying to remember whether any of her salacious gossip magazines had mentioned Charlie-slash-Lorde’s romantic exploits. “A famous human. They generally have relationships, don’t they?”

“God, no. And I’m not _being human_. Gross. I’m just…”

“What?” the Doctor asked, noticing her hesitation and looking up at his daughter with concern. “Charlie, what’s going on?”

“Mum got bored,” she confessed unwillingly, dropping her gaze to the carpet and scuffing her toe over the rug in an attempt to downplay the situation. “Right after wiping your memory, and hypnotising Clara. Said I should probably spend some time on a backwards little planet to gain experience, and then dumped me here as a survival exercise.”

“But you… Lorde… whatever, they’ve been around _years_ ,” Clara said with surprise, trying to work out the maths behind it. “How…” 

“Oh, come on. Like the Black Archive’s difficult to break into. Like I’ve actually been doing this shit _linearly._ Haven’t you read all the trashy magazines, Clara? Come on. Lorde doesn’t age. Namely because I just hop in and out for the important bits. Makes life easier.” 

“If you’ve been here for years, why haven’t I noticed you before now?” Clara asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean… it’s been _ages_.”

“I hadn’t even been _born_ when the first album came out,” Charlie rolled her eyes. “I mean, for you. I couldn’t remind you of me, because you didn’t have _me_ to base it on. I was going to jack it all in after the first album, but like, the money was excellent, and the gigs are pretty great as well, so hello _Melodrama_. Hello you. Hello dad. Hello undoing mum’s plan.” 

“Where _is_ your mother?” the Doctor asked, scowling at the mention of his co-parent. “Nearby, I hope.”

“Chillax, dad, I’m not eight anymore,” Charlie shook her hair back and tried to look casual, falling only slightly short. “She’s over in the Horsehead Nebula, I think. Fucking shit up. Not worrying about me.” 

“Language.”

“Whatever, dad,” she looked away, her tone softening as she admitted: “Apparently, Grammys don’t hold a lot of intergalactic value, or at least not to the Queen of Evil.” 

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” the Doctor said quietly, getting to his feet and pulling his daughter into an awkward, reluctant hug, ignoring her squirming and protestations as he held her close. “I’m proud of you.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Clara concurred, getting to her feet and watching the teenager relax into the embrace with a smile. “I mean, I’m used to my students achieving their GCSEs, winning Grammys is incredible.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t _all_ me winning Grammys,” Charlie replied, pulling away from her father and grinning wickedly. “That’s not all I can stick on my CV. There was a lot of burglary going on too. Still _is_ , technically.”

“Charlie!” the Doctor exclaimed, visibly aghast at the prospect. 

“Not to mention the crime syndicates-” 

“ _Charlie_!” 

“-And occasional murders.” 

“That is _not acceptable,_ young lady!” 

“But daddy,” she turned to her father, widening her eyes and trying to look young and innocent. “The nasty men were nasty to your little girl. They called her names and had horrible grabby hands that wandered to places I didn’t like. It was only a _little_ bit of murdering. For the greater good.” 

“…fine,” he muttered, and Clara raised her eyebrows at his sudden lack of complaint. “Don’t look at me like that. You’d say the same about your daughter.” 

“She’s _basically_ my daughter.”

“Ew,” Charlie objected forcefully. “Mega ew. Not OK. No thanks.” 

“You know,” Clara said in exasperation, throwing her hands in the air as she spoke. “You _used_ to really like me.” 

“Yeah, but then I… what was it that you said? ‘Turned into an angry Scottish cow with an attitude problem, exactly like my mother, which alongside my father’s judgement made for a very nasty combination.’” 

“Did I really say that?” Clara asked, fighting the urge to laugh. “Oops.” 

“Look… bickering aside,” the Doctor sighed, switching his attention back to his daughter. “Charlie, kit, are you happy?” 

“I guess?” she reasoned, pondering the question. “The perks are great, you know? Lots of international travel. Occasional jaunts off-world. Plenty of scheming. Money’s excellent. Adoring fans get a bit draining, but I’m mysterious and aloof and that shit seems to go down just fine, so I can’t complain.” 

“What about your mum?” 

“She’ll turn up. She always does.” 

“Weeeeeell… wanna come with us until she does?”

“God, no,” she shuddered at the idea, and the Doctor’s face fell. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I’ve got an album to promote, for one thing. For another… well, I’m starting to see mum’s point about clinging.” 

“I am not _clinging_ ,” he complained, looking wounded at the accusation. “I’m _concerned about my daughter._ ” 

“Dad, really. Chill out, you don’t need to be. Now, I have shit to do, so get back in the blue box with the puppy and fly away somewhere. Don’t phone mum up and bollock her. If you absolutely _must_ , don’t have any more sex.”

“Would we do that?” 

“Yes,” Clara interjected slyly. “You definitely would.” 

“Rude,” he pouted, hovering awkwardly on the threshold of the TARDIS and looking at his daughter with distress. “Are you sure you’ll be OK if we leave you?”

“Quite sure.” 

“Don’t murder anyone else.” 

“I won’t unless they really deserve it.” 

“I… fine. Keep in touch, OK? Call us if you need anything.” 

“I might.” 

“But-”

“Don’t make me threaten you at gunpoint. Get in the box, dad. Go on.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, dad.”

“Love you, kiddo,” Clara added for good measure. “Please don’t shoot me for that.” 

“I won’t _shoot you_ ,” Charlie rolled her eyes, then almost smiled, which Clara considered a victory. “You’re alright, I guess.” 

Clara smiled sadly, stepping inside the TARDIS with the Doctor and watching as his daughter pulled the doors closed behind him with an impatient expression. 

“So,” she said, with as much levity as she was able to muster, ascending the stairs and turning to grin at the Time Lord. “ _Not_ Missy. Definitely good. Always a bonus to find that-”

“How could I forget her?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned on the console and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, looking up at Clara for reassurance. “How could I do that?”

“Missy and a neural block, apparently. You can’t beat yourself up about it, Doctor.” 

“What aren’t you upset about this?” he spat, then noticed her hurt expression and his anger dissipated. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Clara. That was unfair.” 

“I _am_ upset,” she admitted, trying to work out how to elucidate what she was feeling in a way he would understand. “Just… I know Missy. I know what she’s like. I’m upset, but not surprised that she’d do this.” 

“I’m not surprised either,” he mumbled, putting his head in his hands on the console. “Just… horrified.” 

“You’re going to phone her up, aren’t you?” Clara said quietly, looking from him to the phone and back again as he straightened up, refusing to meet her gaze. “And yell at her?” 

“Of course.” 

“And… do the thing Charlie said not to?” 

“Clara, I’m angry at her.” 

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Can you just… go and be sad in your room? Please?”

“Fine,” she took several steps into the corridor leading to her bedroom, then called over her shoulder. “Be responsible!”


End file.
